


Cat's Cradle

by SabbyWrites



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Daishou/Kuroo (Implied), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Addiction, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Graphic Description of Corpses, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Psychological Trauma, Reader is a sex worker, Recreational Drug Use, Russian Mafia, Smut, Survivor Guilt, Vaginal Sex, use of slurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabbyWrites/pseuds/SabbyWrites
Summary: “Round and round we spin, with feet of lead and wings of tin.”- Kurt Vonnegut





	Cat's Cradle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Crows in the Catacombs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604747) by [SabbyWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabbyWrites/pseuds/SabbyWrites). 



> Hiya! So, as some of you may be able to tell-- this is a companion fic to Crows in the Catacombs. I've been sitting on this fic idea for a while, now, wanting to play with the possibility of a more mature Lev and, more specifically, the dynamics of Kuroo's gang while they were alive. This fic deals with mental illness and relationships in a much different way than Crows does-- so if you were looking for something a little more unhinged, this ain't it. 
> 
> I want to give a huge thank-you to [Ronnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyAndroid/pseuds/ActuallyAndroid), [BlueSimba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimba/pseuds/BlueSimba), and [Oz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso) for looking at this Giant Bitch of a fic. Henry Hoes 4 Lyfe. 
> 
> xx sab

Lev Haiba arrives in Moscow nine minutes after midnight. 

The city is just as bleak as he remembered it, even with the darkness of the sky masking most of the cracks in the pavement and the litter clinging to the sidewalk. The dingy cement apartments create an irregular horizon, monumental despite their crumbling design; clotheslines hang on dilapidated balconies, fabric fluttering in the wind like the flag of a surrendering country at wartime. 

This is home, he supposes, and is really no worse than the slums of Tokyo. But at least in Tokyo the buildings didn’t seem to reach high into the sky like beacons of disrepair and the poverty was more condensed and easier to ignore. 

He shoulders his duffle bag, turning for a moment to watch his train depart once again in the direction of the Izmaylovo district. He’d considered staying on for a little bit when he realized the train would be going through the historic parts of Moscow— he missed seeing the domed architecture of the city’s prized buildings— but decided against it when he realized that he didn’t have the money to catch a cab back to the center of the capitol. Sentimentality is a casualty of the job, Yaku had taught him, and even if he’d been willing to indulge there was no telling if the churches he admired in his youth wouldn’t just be a disappointment like everything else. 

It’s cold, he realizes after a moment of just standing and staring. It’s cold and it’s windy. He pulls the denim jacket that he stole from Kuroo’s body tighter around himself, fingers catching in the gash at the front. He’d bleached the jacket into near oblivion but a stain still rims the hole with a faded brown. It doesn’t bother him as much as it should that this is where Hinata stabbed Kuroo for the final time; Lev finds himself mostly concerned with the fact that the lack of lining in the jacket gives him little protection from the elements. He should have taken something else, but he hardly had the time. 

It’d been a lot warmer back in Japan. Not by much, but it had been.The long nights he’d spent smoking on the back porch of Kuroo’s home with him were balmy and sweet, a far cry from the bitter and rough chill that seem to always sweep the streets of Moscow despite the season. Not for the first time since he fled from Tokyo does Lev think about the bodies he left behind in that house— and the lives that used to be in them. Perhaps if he was still sixteen, Lev could find some sort of solace in the thought of an afterlife, but the long years spent watching his friends die had practically stripped him of the teachings of the Russian Orthodox church.

With a sigh that escapes into the brisk wind around him, Lev dips his hand into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a crumpled slip of paper. An address is scrawled there, legible only to him. He’d taken special care to write it in Japanese, should anyone around him in the city try to peek at it, but he realizes now that the effort was pointless. There’s hardly a soul to be found, and the few that occupy the sidewalk seem to not want to make eye contact with him— not that he particularly minds. He skims the slip again, committing the address to memory as best as he can, before ripping it in half and tossing it into a trash can on the nearest street corner. It flutters in the wind before coming to rest on an empty fast-food cup and what appears to be shredded styrofoam. Lev watches, stares at it for far longer than he needs to, only looking up when the reflection of the streetlight in the trash can’s plastic veneer changes. 

His own memory of Moscow surprises him. The city had been his home for over ten years, yes, but he’d been away for almost the same amount of time; it’s nothing short of a miracle that he doesn’t have to ask for directions. He passes a newer hotel on Bol’shaya Spasskaya and considers stopping in— knowing his current situation, wherever he is given to sleep will be less than optimal— but he doesn’t have the time or the money. He hadn’t exactly been stockpiling rubles whilst in Tokyo, and his emergency fund shows it. 

No matter.

The address leads him to an alleyway off Bol’shaya Spasskaya. This is where he finds his mission most difficult; it takes two attempts to walk into the right one. Crammed in between a nail salon and an empty storefront for lease is a startlingly vertical house. The roof barely touches the tops of the apartments crammed above the storefronts, and yet it seems to be the most daunting building in the area. Decrepit, like many others, and yet brimming with a strange sense of life. It gives off the distinct impression of existing in a space where it does not belong. 

There’s a gate cutting off the rest of the alleyway, preventing bypassers from directly approaching the house. On the outside of the gate is a small buzzer, gleaming with newness against the weather-stained brick. Had he not known what the buzzer was for, Lev might have mistaken it as something used by the postmen. He hesitates to push it, but the chill of the night prompts him to. The intercom next to the buzzer crackles to life. 

“Yes?” 

“I’m here to meet with Kuznetsov.” 

“And your business with him?” 

Lev’s neutral expression twitches into a slight frown. 

“This is Lev.” 

“Hang on.” 

Lev sighs, removing his finger from the buzzer and waiting patiently at the gate. It takes a few moments, but the front door cracks open; the alleyway is immediately flooded with a sliver of warm light that reaches just inches from the gate. A large man, somewhere in his thirties, steps out and immediately closes the door behind him, then stands still on the front step.

“Lev?” he asks, as if there’s anyone else there. Lev raises his hand as amicably as he can, then rests it on one of the gate’s cold metal bars. 

“That’s me,” he clarifies. The man still doesn’t budge. 

“How should I know?” 

Lev squints, feeling a sort of boldfaced irritation rise within him. The trepidation is warranted, he knows, but the time spent verifying his own identity defeats the purpose of trying to get out of the cold. 

Nevertheless, Lev finds himself reaching for the front of his jacket, pulling it from his shoulders and tossing it over the gate. Next comes his outer shirt, and then the ratty thermal one underneath; the man at the door watches as the two garments join the first on the other side, though his eyes soon leave them to focus on Lev once more. 

He stands with his shoulders back and his head held high just like his father taught him, but he feels naked in a way unrelated to the fact that the entire top half of his torso is showing. Lev isn’t used to having his body scrutinized, especially for this reason, and he’s afraid the unease shows in his eyes. Thankfully, his new company doesn’t appear to notice. 

His eyes first catch on the skull. It’s where everyone’s eyes go, and Lev isn’t particularly shocked when he notices the immediate focus on his collarbone. The ink is well-worn but has survived years and years under the sun; Lev has no real desire to touch it up. 

Next is the three cats scattered around it, filling his right pectoral with elegant, intertwined figures. They rest above the upward-facing spider, the sailor-style knife, and the lion’s head that Kuroo had paid for. The linework is still crisp; he’d only gotten it done a handful of months ago. 

“No roundstone, yet?” The man asks. Lev makes an irritated sound, though reins it in at the last moment to keep from seeming unrelaxed. 

“Haven’t had the time.”

“Busy?” 

“Something like that,” Lev replies, flooding with relief when the man finally comes towards the gate and unlocks it. Lev steps inside as soon as he is able, stooping low and picking up his discarded clothing. The man closes and locks the gate behind him. 

“You’re a ballsy kid for showing your tattoos in the open.” He says, and Lev finds himself incredibly displeased with the way the words are spoken to him. 

“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” He says, tone level as he slides his undershirt back on. 

“No,” the man agrees, which irritates Lev even more, “you did not.” 

Lev follows him inside regardless, thinking with an exorbitant amount of bitterness that he’d do practically anything to be rid of the cold.

The entryway of the house is small. Deceptively small. Lev waits patiently next to the door as the man tells him he’ll retrieve Kuznetsov from his second-floor office, and revels in the brief moment of solitude. He remembers this feeling, albeit vaguely, from when he was a child no taller than his father’s waist. Japan hadn’t afforded him much alone time— and he hadn’t expected it to, running with the Cats— and he has the feeling that Russia won’t, either. 

Time passes as Lev casts another glance around. The archways on either side of the entrance are covered by sheets; silent shadows move behind them, carrying whispered conversations that he can hardly decipher. A lamp glows perilously close to the sheet on his left, illuminating the bottom corner of the room which is not covered. A sliver of hardwood flooring and the corner of an unmade mattress are the only things he can see.

“Haiba?” 

He glances to the top of the staircase. The man is back, but this time he flanks the reason for Lev’s visit. 

A slowly balding man with a mustache barely thicker than the cloud of smoke he exhales peers down at Lev, cigar in hand. He’s wearing a long, silky robe that does little to hide his protruding stomach or his calloused feet. Every blemish on his fair skin is visible, even the shadow of his stubble. 

And yet to Lev, his appearance sends a jolt of relief though him. 

“Yes, sir.” He says, because it strikes him then that he hadn’t quite rehearsed what he’d call the man standing in front of him. Luckily, the term doesn’t offend; in fact, Kuznetsov’s face splits into a toothy grin. 

“My boy! You’ve grown so much! Come, come on upstairs!” 

Lev fights the urge to decline the offer and instead makes his way up the stairs. The bannister, although polished, feels lumpy under his fingers.

Lev’s arrival on the landing is punctuated by the sound of a headboard rhythmically beating against the wall in one of the various rooms along the hallway. He doesn’t care to know which one. Two women are leaning against the wall, talking in whispers as they share a cigarette. Neither is wearing anything on the top half of their body. The casual nudity does not excite him in the way it’s meant to. 

“Did Stepanov give you a hard time?” Kuznetsov asks amicably. The man next to him— Stepanov— grunts, but does not protest the question. 

“No,” Lev says, “he did his job.” 

“Good. That’s what he’s hired for.” Kuznetsov replies as he leads the two of them up another small set of steps and into the loft area. The sound of the headboard fades into a dull thudding. 

“Take a seat.” Stepanov says. Lev chooses a well-worn chair next to Kuznetsov’s desk, eyeing the office warily as he waits for either of the other men to speak. There’s no decor on the walls, nor on the desk; despite the warmth of the lighting, the place seems quite cold and clinical. 

“Thanks.” Lev grunts, again a little miffed at the way Stepanov speaks to him. He taps one of his long fingers against the tattered arm of the chair, the rough fabric scratching at his skin in a strangely pleasant way. Kuznetsov sits at his desk, a short puff of wind leaving his lungs when his back meets the chair. He rests his cigar on a heavy marble ashtray next to a few piled folders and an assortment of computer monitors.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” 

“It has.” Lev says, not quite sure as to whether or not Kuznetsov plans to conduct business with a third party in the room. As if reading his expression, Kuznetsov waves his hand flippantly at Stepanov, who sours a little at the gesture. Lev is certain he can see a vein in his temple jump and pulse a little, all the way up to his shaven hairline. 

“Iosif, go get some of the girls dinner. I’m sure they’re famished by now,” Kuznetsov says with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, making another shooing motion with his hand. Stepanov, though disgruntled, doesn’t seem to want to test his boss. With a curt nod and a mumbled phrase of relent, he steps out of the room. Lev waits until he hears him ascend from the loft and close the bedroom door behind him before he decides to talk. 

“You’ve grown.” Kuznetsov repeats before any words can fall from Lev’s lips. 

“You said so earlier.” Lev dips his head in a non-offending way, but his brows still knit together. Kuznetsov laughs, plucking his cigar back up and taking an experimental puff on the end. 

“So I did. But it’s hard for me to believe, Lev. It feels like yesterday when you used to come around, clinging to your father’s legs— oh, look at you now!”

Somehow, Lev feels slightly insulted. 

“You must be well over two meters now, yes?” 

Lev nods. “Just over. It’s a pain getting through doorways, sometimes.” 

“I would assume!” Kuznetsov lets out a short, acidic burst of laughter that Lev knows is genuine; it still makes him shift in his seat awkwardly, though he tries his best to hide it. “Japanese architecture does not seem to keep people like you in mind!”

Lev has half a mind to protest, for some inane reason. Kuroo’s home had been just fine. Instead, he curls his fingers in his laps for a second. His nails bite into his palm, slightly. He needs to clip them. 

“Things there were different,” he says evenly. Kuznetsov quirks a brow at him, taking another drag from the cigar. 

“I would damn well hope so! And yet here you are,” he muses, “I wonder why that is?” 

“I have nowhere else to go.” Lev says. He’d debated the entire way over to Russia if his honesty was worth it. 

Kuznetsov would find out regardless. 

“Oh?” Said man leans back in his chair. His silky robe parts slightly, revealing a stained undershirt beneath. The lion’s head on Lev’s abdomen seems to simmer like an unattended pot of water. 

“I ran with a group of guys out there. Organized crime, with not as much emphasis on the organization,” Lev begins, thinking of the nonchalant way Kuroo would conduct business. Laying down on the couch, cigarette pinched between his lips with sweatpants low on his hips as he decided where and how his current target was going to perish. 

He still had great aim with his pistol, even laying on his back. 

Kuznetsov gestures for Lev to continue, so he does. “Majority of them got killed a few weeks ago. Came here as soon as I was able to go back and get my passport.” 

Lev isn’t sure if Kuznetsov’s brows raise because of the murders or because of the fact that Lev is still able to use his old passport. Perhaps both. 

“These men. Were you living in close quarters with them?” This isn’t the first question he expected to be asked, but it seems relatively harmless in the moment. 

“Yes, I was.”

Kuznetsov exhales a cloud of smoke. The odor is so strong Lev feels like it may physically choke him. 

“ _Golubois_?” 

Lev fights the irritation that wants to manifest on his face from the slur, but he’s unable to hold back the flinch. It’s been over a decade since he’s heard the word; it feels like ice water being dumped on him after a hot shower. Immediately, the image of the men Kuroo used to entertain flickers in his mind. 

“None of them,” he lies, as soon as he’s sure he can make it believable. Dishonesty seems to be the path of least resistance in this specific case.. 

“Then why?” 

“Saved money. Most of us were bachelors. Only one had a wife; the rest of us boarded in flats or the house.” He says, thinking of Kai and his family. He wonders if Megumi ever found out how her husband was killed— wonders if she blames him.

“Tch. And how well did that work out for them? Leave it to the Japanese…” Kuznetsov trails off as he takes another drag. Lev’s hands curl into fists again, and this time he allows his nails to pinch his flesh for longer. It keeps him from seeing red. This time, the man across from him picks up on his mild agitation. 

“Ah, sorry, sorry! I forget your situation, sometimes. You pass as a full-blooded Russki.” 

_Situation_. Lev never thought the word would be such an insult, and yet here it is— presented to him in a place where he cannot properly react. His heritage, it seems, is some sort of misfortune in the eyes of the others. He’s used to this, and yet it stings every single time. 

“I practiced my Russian frequently so I wouldn’t forget it.” He says as mildly as he can, wondering if his irritation bleeds out through his words. If so, it goes unacknowledged. 

“I can tell. It’s still quite good.” Kuznetsov says, and then he squints in a way that only he can. Lev is familiar with this face, though mostly through passively seeing it as a child; to have such a scrutinizing expression directed towards him reminds him of whenever Kenma would glance at him from over the top of his computer monitor. He feels the same way now that he did all of those times— small, insignificant, and as though he is far from the strongest man in the room. 

A pause lapses between the two of them. Kuznetsov’s hand comes to rest on top of the stacked files, and Lev can’t help but glance at them. Blackmail fuel, he’s sure. The man before him rarely, if ever, changes his business model. 

“Enough small talk, huh?” He smiles again, that one that doesn’t quite touch the entirety of his face, and Lev nods numbly in response. “You must be here for something. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised it took you this long to visit your old friend.”

 _You’re not my friend._ Lev thinks bitterly. _You weren’t even my father’s friend._

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is this: 

“I need a place to stay.” 

Kuznetsov’s smile widens. It still fails to bring warmth to his eyes. 

“Of course, my boy. I promised your father I’d take care of the two of you should something happen to him.” 

_You meant_ when _something happens to him_ , Lev can’t help but think again, his hands instinctively flinching as if to curl into fists before laying flat against the arms of the chair again. When he speaks, it is to again go against his inner musings. 

“Thank you. I’d be willing to provide services in return. Driving, number crunching, f—”

“I have something in mind for you.” Kuznetsov cuts him off, reclining a little further in his chair. Lev quirks an eyebrow, though he fails to feel any sort of shock at the revelation. He surmised that Kuznetsov had already put the pieces into place the second he showed up at the gate. 

“Of course.” Lev brings his hands together and intertwines his fingers, an anchoring technique that Yaku used to do every time he was about to deliver bad news. Lev wonders if it will have the same impact when he is undoubtedly on the receiving end of such news; if the way Kuznetsov mindlessly taps ash from his cigar is any indication, Lev’s job will be closer to the core of Kuznetsov’s business than he’d hoped. 

“One of my girls has had a bit of bad luck lately.” He starts, popping the cigar back into his mouth, “and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind helping her when she’s out on the town.” 

Lev’s eyes narrow. “What sort of bad luck?”

“Customers who refuse to pay, angry ex-boyfriend— she’d been told not to date, but I know the girls love to go behind my back. This one tried to murder her,” Kuznetsov drawls, nonchalant as if he were talking about rotten fruit rather than a human life, “left a nasty scar on her. I was worried she wouldn’t be as popular anymore, but she still brings in plenty.” 

Lev isn’t sure if Kuroo’s more liberal thinking has infected his own mind in regards to sex workers, or if he’s just sick of people being treated as commodities and not living creatures. 

“And you want me to…?”

“She’ll need someone to drive her and wait outside of the homes she’s requested to visit. Make sure she’s only there for the time paid, make sure nobody’s trailing her there, and— most important— make sure she’s receiving the money.” 

“I see,” Lev replies. Kuzntsov stares at him for a second before he continues on. 

“If absolutely nothing else, make sure you secure payment. I’m getting sick of men thinking they can fuck my whores for free!” He laughs, wholeheartedly. 

“Understood.” 

“I knew you would! I’ll have you head out tomorrow with her. She has two appointments booked, I believe.” Kuznetsov trails off, his eyes flicking towards one of the computer monitors. After a moment, he catches Lev staring; this time, his responding smile is surprisingly more genuine. 

“Have to keep up with the times, no? My girls have house calls more often than you’d think. It used to be a headache to manage, but I’ve been able to double rates with them. You wouldn’t believe what businessmen are willing to pay for an hour with a girl who has all her teeth!” 

Kuznetsov laughs again. Lev thinks he’s supposed to join in, to find the joke funny, but it falls dead and flat right at his feet. This doesn’t seem to matter to his company, who continues to chortle even as he finishes off his cigar. 

“My boy,” he rumbles, looking at Lev with a pleasant gleam in his eye, “I have no doubt you’ll serve me well. Your father was excellent, as was your mother. Your sister— well, she did her best, I suppose. But you, Lev— oh, I have had high hopes for you since you were young. I hope those golubois in Japan didn’t change who you are.” 

Lev battles a wince at the sound of the slur once more coming from Kuznetsov’s lips. If Kuroo were here, he thinks, he’d have emptied a full clip into the pimp’s head for his blatant homophobia. Again, his lion tattoo tingles; it almost seems angry on his behalf. 

“They didn’t,” he lies. 

“Good, good. Now, let me show you to your room.”

When they descend the stairs, the topless women are gone. A scraggly man, balding and sweaty, is shoving rubles into the hands of one of the women standing in an open doorway. Lev assumes this is the noise he heard earlier; as they pass, the woman slowly hands a majority of the rubles to Kuznetsov. 

“Thank you, my dear.” He purrs, pocketing the bills. The woman watches them pass, and Lev gets the distinct feeling that she wants to lunge over and reclaim her profit. Instead, she slinks back into her room and gently closes the door. Another woman, this one looking to be in her late forties, eyes them from her own open doorway at the end of the hall. Kuznetsov stops at the last door, next to hers. 

“You can sleep here for tonight. I will arrange a new place for you tomorrow— I take it you don’t have many things to move, yeah?” 

Lev nods, thinking of all the things he’d left behind in his haste to leave Japan. 

“Good. I’ll have Stepanov come wake you in the morning. There’s something I’d like you to do for me before you set out with your girl.” 

“This what we’ve got, now?” The woman in the neighboring doorway quips suddenly. Lev looks over at her, slightly alarmed despite himself, while Kuznetsov laughs in a rather daunting way. 

“Excuse me?” Lev asks her, though his voice comes out more genuinely confused than authoritative. 

“You’re just a boy!” The woman continues. She sounds accusatory, not concerned. 

“He’s Haiba’s son. More than capable of what I’m asking him to do, Anichka.” Kuznetsov says lightly, still looking overly amused. The woman tuts, shaking her head; Lev realizes with a sudden jolt that he recognizes this woman. She used to hang at Kuznetsov’s side when he was a little boy. The years have been less than kind to her. 

She squints over and up at him, much more overt in her judgement than Kuznetsov tends to be. “Haiba’s son? You’re sure?” 

It takes an enormous amount of restraint to keep Lev from raking his hands through his hair self-consciously. 

“The very same. Lev has grown, hasn’t he?” 

Lev wonders of Anichka was this wary of Alisa, when she’d been around. He hopes not. 

“He’ll do,” Anichka says, as if she has any authority within the home whatsoever. Then, her voice drops into something a little more bitter as Kuznetsov opens Lev’s temporary room for him: 

“I’m sure [Surname] will be happy with whatever she gets.” 

Lev pauses. Surely, he couldn’t have heard right, and yet he knows that he has. The sentence, simple and scoffed, sends an absolute wave of dread through his entire body. His pause is noticeable. 

“[Surname]?” He repeats. 

Kuznetsov gives him a long look. It’s smug, satisfied; Lev feels very much like a canary looking into the eyes of a hungry cat. 

“You remember sweet [Name], don’t you?”

 _Remember_. As if Lev hadn’t spent half of his life in the homeland completely infatuated with you. Now, the mention of your name makes him feel quite ill. 

“She’s… she’s not—” 

“You mustn’t have heard!” Kuznetsov exclaims with feigned surprise. Anichka leans against her doorway, watching Lev’s revelation with an equally smug expression. “That family— oh, it was the worst! The father went mad, killed the mother… there was just nothing to be done! The government couldn’t take that sweet girl. I had to. She’s been with me the last few years.” Kuznetsov says. Lev almost can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t believe that he’s being told that forced prostitution was the only thing to be done for an orphan. If only he’d been here, had known you were alone, he could have… he could have… 

He could have _what_ , exactly? He’d hightailed it to Japan and dropped off the face of the Earth. Hadn’t bothered to call you, write you; hadn’t bothered to do much of anything.

Those first few years, he hadn’t even bothered to remember you. But he had, the other night, when he was sitting in the airport all alone, headphones dangling uselessly around his neck because he was too wary to listen to music when the very real possibility of being shot in the back of the head presented itself. But he’d thought of you, for a fleeting second, when his flight had been called. Thought about the way you’d smiled at him, when he was a gangly kid and you were blossoming into something he thought he’d never see. Living with Kuroo and Kenma had sort of sucked any vapid hopefulness from him, especially when he’d had to pick through their bodies for their most valuable belongings. 

Kuznetsov gestures for him to step into the room. It’s cold, clinical, with a touch of moistness that Lev ignores as he sits on the bed with a muted sigh. Kuznetsov closes the door, the sliver of teeth in his smile disappearing behind it. 

Lev had thought of you, in that airport. And he’d thought of you once before that, the first time he’d ever gotten high. He thought of what your skin might look like now, if your eyes were still bright and your smile still lived-in. He had thought you might have forgotten about him, on your own journey through unforgiving streets. He knows now that such a thing is unlikely.

Lev pushes himself back on the bed, resting his head on the chipped headboard. Kuroo’s jacket is a little tight around the arms but he can’t bring himself to take it off. 

It serves to remind him why he’s here. Hinata— who he’d trusted with his life, who he’d told about the vault and about the skag and who had turned around and taken everything he had from him— is out there, somewhere, with that shitty brown hair dye fading from his little ginger head. He’s out there somewhere and so are others, others who won’t be as _easy_ on him. 

He isn’t here to protect you. He can’t be. And yet—

—and yet, he thinks before he finally falls asleep, that’s all he wants to do.


End file.
